


Thank You, Imperial Oil

by khasael



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Traditions, Victory Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s gratifying in so many ways when both Jonny and Patrick are named two of the three Stars of the Game at the end of the night. Among other things, it says something about how well they work together. And, well, if they’ve developed a bit of an arrangement for just such an occasion, it’s their little secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You, Imperial Oil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts).



> I don't even know how this whole thing happened. No, that's a lie. It's completely the fault of MajaLi and Byaghro--the first, for dragging me into this fandom before I even knew what was happening, despite the fact that 1) I've been a fan of my local team since they BECAME my local team in 1995 and 2) I don't usually do RPF, and the second, for making a casual, off-handed comment yesterday (a couple of nights after the Blackhawks played said team), that is basically the premise for this fic.
> 
> Title refers to the [history of the three stars of the game tradition](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_stars_\(ice_hockey\)).

No one’s ever going to say that Patrick can’t be a bit competitive now and then. Jonny, for one, is absolutely never going to say that. He’s seen it enough times—during games, obviously, but even in practices and scrimmages, and even stupid little arguments about who can take a faster shower, or stay outside in the cold for longer without shivering, or even trivia about which fucking pop star cited something-or-other as their favorite diet food.

Jonny’s not against Patrick’s competitive streak, especially because one, it motivates him pretty well, and two, it’s not as if he doesn’t have his own. And yeah, sometimes that means they butt heads, each wanting to out-do the other, but that’s mostly over little shit these days—fucking around while warming up, or playing video games, or something equally dumb.

It’s shaping up to be a good night. They’re almost through the second against the Preds, and the team is on _fire_ tonight—they’re up three to nothing, and it if keeps going this way, Kaner might even end up with a hat trick by the end of it, the last two goals sliding in within the last six minutes, both his. Sharpy’s got the other, giving them a solid start back in the first, and though Jonny doesn’t have any of his own yet, he’s at least got assists on all three. They’ve even kept the Preds’ shots on goal pretty damned low. It’s just one of those nights where everyone’s in the right place at the right time, where they function as a whole.

Someone right up against the glass yells something about Patrick being named Star of the Game during the break between the second and third, and Patrick shoots Jonny this look so fast no one else sees it, but the meaning is clear: it’s not a foregone conclusion, but if it happens, he’s looking forward to their arrangement. 

Jonny doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. He’s never not honored their tradition.

They wrap it up, six to two. Patrick’s got his hat trick, nailed during a power play, Jonny’s got one (and four assists that just felt destined to happen), Sharpy and Seabs have the other two goals. Shawzy ended up with two minutes in the box for a bullshit call, but even that hadn’t brought the momentum down. They’re just off the ice, post-game handshake line already done and everyone headed into the locker rooms, when Jonny hears the announcer’s voice boom his name from above the ice: He’s second in the Stars of the Game ranking, though he’d missed hearing who was third. 

And first, of course, is Patrick.

Patrick’s eyes are nearly manic when Jonny looks his way; his attempt to keep his smirk toned down is only somewhat successful. Jonny nods his acknowledgement, doesn’t let everything show while he gives the short little speech they expect him to make, and showers and books it home while most of the other guys celebrate a little longer, more enthusiastically, in the locker room than Jonny allows himself tonight.

He’s saving his energy for what’s next.

He’s only been home for ten minutes when he opens his door at the knock he’s been anticipating, and he’s got Kaner’s mouth on his, hot and eager before the door’s even shut behind them. “Well, hello to you, too,” Jonny breathes when they finally break apart. “Or should I say, ‘congratulations’?”

Patrick grins at him, his look almost predatory, and leans forward and up to kiss him again, pressing Jonny up against the wall. “I’ll take those congratulations in the usual way, if you don’t mind.”

Jonny runs his hand through Patrick’s still-damp hair, swallowing the small noise Patrick moans into his mouth. He can feel Patrick growing harder where he’s pressed against Jonny’s thigh, and he breaks them apart enough that he can dip his head and bite at Patrick’s ear. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. In fact, Patrick nearly drags him into the bedroom, somehow managing to get Jonny’s shirt off in the process. There’s no leisurely strip-down tonight, no need to build the momentum at all. Patrick knows what he wants, what he’s entitled to, and Jonny wants nothing more than to give it to him. They’re naked and on top of the bed within moments, and Jonny can’t help the gasp he lets out when Patrick bites his collarbone, licking and sucking at the skin there while he uses his left hand to get Jonny fully hard. It’s short fucking work, and it takes no time at all before Jonny’s batting him away, digging in the drawer to find the bottle of lube, and tossing it to Patrick before he rolls over onto his stomach. He’s surprised a little, however, when Patrick knocks the bottle to the side instead of opening it. “Not yet,” he murmurs, sliding between Jonny’s legs. “This first.”

There’s a tongue wet and hot against his hole almost immediately, and Jonny moans, his face pressed into one of the pillows. He sometimes gives Patrick hell for his oral fixation, because it’s not a secret—the whole world knows about it, pictures out there for everyone to see of Patrick playing with his mouth guard, or reaching up to lick the fucking Stanley Cup—but he’s never going to complain about it and mean it. Especially because Kaner’s got some very talented hands, and he knows just how to combine the two to have Jonny utterly at his mercy, about a half-step from begging when he finally sits up and reaches for the lube for a second time.

“So,” he says, voice apparently striving for conversational, even as Jonny hears the bottle of lube click open again, followed by the sensation of a familiar cool slickness against his hole, “I was the number one Star of the Game tonight.” A finger works some more of the lube into him, the going easy thanks to Patrick’s earlier ministrations. “And you were number two.” The finger disappears, and Jonny knows Patrick’s slicking himself up, bites down on the urge to tell him to hurry and just do it, because Patrick earned this. “So, you know what that means.”

“It means you top tonight,” Jonny says, wishing Patrick wasn’t quite so keen on drawing this out. Because he wants Patrick in him, right the hell now, fucking him into the mattress so hard he forgets his own name (but not Patrick’s, never Patrick’s). He’s been one to Patrick’s two the last few times, relishes this tradition of theirs, but goddamn, he wants this, is looking forward to it at least as much as Patrick is. 

“Fuck yeah, it does,” Patrick exhales, breath going shaky as he sinks himself in all the way. He thrusts in short little movements at first, then manages to get Jonny up on his hands and knees with a little guidance. He gets one lube-slick hand around Jonny’s dick, stroking in time, and once he shuffles forward just a little, he manages to hit Jonny’s prostate. 

“Keep doing it that way,” Jonny manages, gasping, “and this is going to be a pretty short celebration.”

Patrick laughs, but slows his thrusts and the movements of his hand. “Well, then, let’s fix that. Got to keep this party going.”

He doesn’t say anything else for a while, no more jokes or anything else, and it’s a while later that Jonny feels him tense up, breathing shallowly, before he pauses and lets Jonny shift so he’s got his own hand on his dick with both of Patrick’s hands on his hips. “Go for it,” Jonny pants, recognizing the signs. He’s close, too, not even sure which one of them might be closer. 

There are small, short whimpering sounds behind him, just before Patrick hits his prostate two—three—four times, and that’s what does it for Jonny, pushes him over the edge, his own hand stroking him off while Kaner’s fingertips bite into his hips hard enough to leave bruises. It’s only a few seconds later that Patrick’s thrusts stutter in their rhythm and he shudders behind Jonny, moaning in a voice that sounds totally wrecked before he rolls them both onto their sides in an effort to avoid collapsing on top of Jonny, crushing him under a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Patrick says after a moment, sounding as blissed out and orgasm-stupid as Jonny feels. “I’ve got to beat you in those stupid Star of the Game rankings more often.”

Jonny rolls over, kisses Patrick light and soft, and nips gently at his lower lip. “You know, you’re welcome to try, anyway.”

Patrick swats at him, licks at the spot behind Jonny’s ear and along his jaw that he likes best. “Just you wait and see. Asshole.”

Jonny just laughs and tucks himself closer. He supposes he can be second to Patrick now and again. He’s not _that_ competitive. 

Usually.

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted completely on the fly. Unbeta'd, so please let me know if you catch anything obvious I've missed.


End file.
